


The Respectable Rogue

by leaper182



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gay-Friendly Regency Era, Gertrud Kapelput/Elijah Van Dahl (past) - Freeform, M/M, Serious variations to Gotham timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaper182/pseuds/leaper182
Summary: It began, as these tales are wont to do, with a tragic death.





	1. The Tragic Death of Gertrud Kapelput

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in April 2017, but I wanted to make sure that I had a lot of material before I started posting yet another WIP. Unfortunately, it's still a WIP, but I've got a lot of material to work with, so there's that.
> 
> Thanks to [Daisy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Doyle/pseuds/Daisiestdaisy) and [Legs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs) for being supportive, encouraging, and pointing out flaws and offering suggestions for making it better. Thank you so much!

It was an ordinary morning, all things considered. Elijah Van Dahl took breakfast as he was wont to do, idly nibbling on toast spread with marmalade as he read the paper.

He idly glanced through the society pages, the business section, the tidbits about sports, before he found himself gazing at the obituaries.

Most of the people featured were older than he by some ten or twenty years, so Elijah didn't necessarily feel his mortality (even if his doctor made dire predictions about the state of his heart if he didn't exercise more caution concerning his diet). So, he couldn't explain why he was looking at the section with the strangest feeling of dread until he saw the announcement.

Gertrud Kapelput was dead.

She had been a vision, Elijah remembered wistfully. Beautiful, an excellent cook, and the most delightful companion to while away the hours. Mother and Father might have thought Elijah had fancied himself in love with her when he had begged them to allow them to marry. But what they hadn't realized (and what Elijah had) was the instant connection, the feeling of absolute _rightness_ with the world whenever he gazed upon her face, heard her soft laughter, felt her hands in his when he held her close.

There had been no other woman like her, before or since, much to his parents' consternation.

To see her death notice in the paper... Elijah wondered if his heart had weakened just a little more because of the depths of his sadness.

As he looked over the announcement, he stopped. And read it again.

_In Gotham, Ms. Gertrud Kapelput, beloved mother, aged 50._

Gertrud had had a child. There were no details, of course, it being a death notice and not the full obituary Gertrud deserved, but Elijah couldn't help a feeling of astonishment.

Gertrud had had a child.

Elijah had not been able to share his life with his beloved Gertrud, but he could do what he could to ensure that her child never wanted. Well, as much as he was able, depending on how old the child was in question.

Elijah had no notion of who this young person could be or where they might be found, but he knew just the man to seek them out.

***

Elijah remembered quite vividly why he hadn't attended parties in several years since he'd been apprised of the condition of his heart. Still, he could brave whatever crush of people he needed in order to find his old friend.

Luckily, his old friend had no trouble finding _him._

James Gordon -- who had been knighted within the past year, according to the papers -- made his way through the assemblage, smiling and nodding to various attendees with whom he was familiar. When he reached Elijah, he beamed openly.

"Sir Gordon," Elijah offered, bowing cautiously.

"Enough of that," James chided before vigorously shaking Elijah's hand to the surprise of some bystanders. "We've known each other too long to stand on ceremony, though I'm surprised to find you here. I thought you had retired to your estate?"

Elijah nodded. "I did indeed, but I have a matter that I wanted to speak with you about directly."

"Say no more," James said, directing Elijah to a small room off of the main ballroom. "Here, we can speak privately away from the crowd."

When the door closed behind James, Elijah took a deep breath. "Gordon, I wish to hire you."

"Hire me?” James's eyebrows rose sharply. “My days of bounty-hunting are finished, my friend. You know that."

"That may be, but there is no one else I would trust with this task," Elijah said firmly. "It must be done with some speed..."

"And some discretion, I take it," James finished for him with a knowing smile.

Elijah removed the slip of newspaper from the inside pocket of his jacket and offered it to him. "My Gertrud is gone."

James accepted the slip, but only stared at his friend uncomprehendingly. "Van Dahl, I'm so sorry."

Elijah breathed deeply and accepted his friend's confused sympathy with a tight nod. "I had resigned myself long ago to the idea that I might never see her again, so this is not wholly unexpected."

"But there's something else?" James prompted gently.

Elijah smiled wryly. "As quick as ever, I see. Yes, it appears Gertrud had a child."

James finally looked the slip of paper in his hand. “ 'Beloved mother'?" He glanced up at his friend with a worried frown. "Do you think that this child might be yours?"

Elijah blinked, momentarily too shocked at the notion. "I... must admit I hadn't considered the idea. I'm sure that Gertrud would've told me if she'd been with child when we parted."

James gave him an almost pitying look. "It's a sad but common story, Van Dahl. Especially if the couple can’t wed due to circumstances."

Elijah set his jaw. "Then it's all the more imperative that this child be found. If he or she is my blood..."

James nodded, clapping a firm hand on Elijah's shoulder. "I'll find them, no matter where they are."

Elijah reached up to cover James's hand with his. "Thank you, my friend."

"Before I begin the search, may I share the details with a friend of mine? I think his help would be invaluable in tracking this person down."

“You mean Detective Bullock? I’m astonished you have to ask.” Elijah waved away the concern. "This isn't a dirty secret to hide from prying eyes, Gordon. It is a tragedy that, I hope, will have a happy conclusion by the end of your search."


	2. Wherein We Meet Our Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for Gertud Kapelput's child is over, but at what cost?
> 
> *musical sting*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, so many thanks go out to [Daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doyle/pseuds/Daisiestdaisy) and [Legs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs) for their patience with me while I flail and pretend I know what I'm doing.
> 
> As a personal note, I don't know much about the Regency Era besides Jane Austen's works as well as mainlining quite a few of Georgette Heyer's. Since Gotham is set in America, this is a strange amalgamation because it's not dealing with American culture, but kind of like transplanting English culture into America and waving both hands so hard that my arms are getting sore. Just... don't think too hard? :D?

“Are you sure he’s going to be here?” James wrinkled his nose as he and Harvey stared at the front door of The Singing Moon tavern. The tavern looked more like a dive, and considering the part of town where they were currently standing, James wouldn’t have been surprised if they would need to make a few arrests as soon as they stepped inside.

“Look, my source is solid,” Harvey replied, knocking on the door in a set rhythm. “Apparently, this guy’s been making a name for himself in town among the less… reputable set.”

A small slit opened at eye level, revealing blue eyes in a round face.

Harvey cleared his throat. “Just a social call, Butch. We’re looking for this man.”

James dutifully held up the picture that he’d sketched some hours before when given a description from one of Harvey’s ‘sources’.

“Whaddaya want with him?” Butch asked.

“He won a public lottery,” Harvey snapped. “Are you gonna let us in or not?”

“We’re here to speak with him about a death notice he submitted to the Gazette,” James said, keeping his gaze on Butch’s. He could see Harvey nearly having an apoplexy out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. “Someone’s interested in meeting him.”

Butch’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like you want him pretty bad, huh. What’re you offering?”

“Quit screwing around and open the damn door,” Harvey grumbled.

The blue eyes disappeared from the slit, and a minute later, the door opened ponderously.

“Come on in, fellas,” Butch said with a friendly smirk and a slight, if mocking, bow. “The water’s fine.”

Butch, now that he wasn’t standing behind a door, was better appointed than James had anticipated. He wasn’t dressed to the nines like a fashionable gentleman on the town, but his jacket and trousers were higher quality than the Singing Moon’s exterior would suggest. He was also taller than James by a few inches, and impressively broad.

The look of the establishment’s interior, when compared to the outside, was also much like Butch himself: intimidating but somehow personable. Tables stood in a comfortable arrangement, with lamps that would have lit customers’ faces, had there been any customers at the moment. A chandelier that looked more at home in one of the finer mansions on the outskirts of town hung above the room, giving soft illumination. At one end of the large room was a wooden stage, fitted with lights, where a grand piano stood. Here and there along the walls were doors of discreet colors.

Harvey glanced around the room quickly and then turned back to Butch. “Where’s Fish?”

James shot Harvey a confused look, but Harvey’s expression told him not to ask.

Butch’s expression darkened forbiddingly. “She’s busy, but I’ll pass along your regards.”

Still frowning, James turned to Butch, only to be stopped by a muffled shout of pain. Judging from the source, it sounded to have come from one of the rooms near the stage.

“What--” he began, but Harvey took a firm hold of his arm.

Butch smirked. “Just some boys having fun is all. Now, you didn’t explain why you wanted to see that guy.” He waved a vague hand at the picture still in James’s hand.

“Are you really going to start giving grief to a _knight?_ ” Harvey asked with a practiced, long-suffering tone while indicating James. “Cooperation with local law enforcement might be considered favorably the next time there’s, ah, _trouble_ here.”

James checked a snort, drifting away from the pair of them and pretending to look fascinated with the chandelier, all the while keeping his ears open for more sounds of distress.

“That’s nice, but if you want to make _those_ kinds of statements, you’ll wanna speak to Fish, and she don’t get here for another hour or so,” Butch said easily. “If you’d like, I can pass that message along to her. Along with your regards, of course.”

There was another muffled scream of pain, this one nearly blood-curdling.

“Or I can cite exigent circumstances,” James snapped, reaching into his jacket and removing his flintlock pistol, “and see what that noise is.”

“Gordon--” Harvey had the sound of a man who was rapidly losing control of the situation, and was very cross about it.

James ignored him with the long ease of habit, finding the door he was sure where the noises were coming from. “Gotham Police!” he shouted before he kicked open the door, aiming his flintlock in front of him. “Hands up!”

The room that James had barged into was less well-appointed than the rest of the tavern, much less so with the body of a man laying curled on his side on the floor. The man’s face was covered with bruises and there was a great deal of blood in evidence.

The two men who’d been standing over him turned. One was large, very similar in size to Butch, but with a swarthy look, hair gently greying, and work clothes where blood had splashed onto them.

The other was whip-thin, pale cheekbones liberally dusted with freckles standing out in a hungry look. Green eyes, wide with alarm, glittered with a sharp intelligence that was difficult to mask. He also wore serviceable work clothes, but they appeared two sizes too large, and drowned his slight frame, making him appear smaller than he most likely was. Topped with stark, black hair that made his pale skin stand out even more, James realized he had found their missing man.

The man curled up on the floor moaned once, a polite if painful reminder that he was still suffering.

“Oswald Cobblepot, I’m placing you under arrest for suspicion of assault.”

***

“This has all been a _terrible_ misunderstanding,” Oswald said for the fourth time since he and his associate, one Gabriel Massini, had been escorted to the police station and locked into one of the large holding cells in the middle of the station’s common area.

James hadn’t been sure what to expect when he had begun this search for Gertrud Kapelput’s child, but Oswald Cobblepot hadn’t been it. Oh, to be sure, the young man was very close to the spitting image of Elijah Van Dahl, which left no doubt in his mind of his parentage.

But to find that not only was the man heavily involved in the more violent aspects of organized crime, but also sported a very painful-looking limp, had been awkward to say the least. James had still been trying to figure out how to explain the situation to Elijah when Oswald’s now-familiar protest had interrupted his thoughts.

James looked up, finding that Oswald was leaning heavily against the thick, steel bars, poking his narrow face between two of them to give James an imploring look.

“It’s hard to misunderstand a man needing to go to the hospital,” James returned as professionally as he could manage, even if he _did_ want to reach through the bars and shake the man.

Oswald sighed theatrically. “It is, indeed. I’m given to understand that I’m allowed to request a runner? One message, and this matter should be cleared up very quickly.”

James fought down a shudder. If this man thought that his arrest could be dismissed as easily as that, James had misunderstood just how deeply involved Oswald Cobblepot was in his line of work. “All of our runners are out at present, Mister Cobblepot. If you can wait until morning, we can see about sending the next available one for you.”

Oswald sighed and headed to the back of the cell, his jaw set firmly as he limped back and collapsed onto the bench next to Massini.

While it was true that all of the police runners were out of the building at the moment, James knew a reliable girl who could be trusted to deliver a message with the utmost discretion. Unfortunately, she needed both incentive and a written message, because she would sometimes garble a message if she felt she wasn’t being adequately compensated for her time. Needing some paper, James found the captain's office empty, but just as he was about to begin writing, he heard someone clear their throat very firmly behind him.

"Writing a grocery list, Gordon?"

James glanced at Harvey, who sat down heavily in the well-worn chair, tossing his beaten hat onto a pile of paperwork to be sorted. "No."

Judging by the look on his face, Harvey knew exactly what James was doing, and for what purpose. "I think it'd be better for your friend if you don't find Gertrud Kapelput's son."

James frowned, returning his attention to the paper and writing a quick salutation. "Van Dahl asked me to find him, and I have. I'm honor-bound to inform him that I've succeeded."

Harvey sighed heavily. "Gordon, you've seen the guy. Do you really want to inflict that kind of trouble on a man you claim is a friend of yours?"

James set his jaw. "Bullock, he deserves the truth. Moreover, he deserves to be the one to make the decision to either accept Mister Cobblepot into his life, or cut ties completely. I'm not Van Dahl's relation, nor am I in a position of authority over him."

Harvey snorted. "Last I checked, you were knighted. That puts you a cut above a landed gentleman."

"For meritorious actions," James reminded him for the hundredth time. "That's not the same-- you know what? Never mind."

Harvey smirked. "See? You can use social standing to tell him to drop it."

"Just because I'm a knight doesn't mean that I have the authority to tell--"

"We have the authority to tell gentlemen all the time that an investigation is closed," Harvey cut in. "How many times have you witnessed it yourself?"

"That is _not_ how I want to conduct business as either an officer of the Gotham police, or as a knight," James snapped. He took a deep breath to continue arguing his case, but Harvey held up a hand.

"All right, all right, _fine_ ," Harvey growled. "But when this creates more trouble for your friend than it’s worth, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Thank you for that," James snapped before finishing the note, folding it in half, and writing the direction for the Van Dahl manor before sealing it and putting it into his pocket.

***

Oswald had seen enough of the Gotham police force’s headquarters when he was growing up that he knew nearly the whole routine of being arrested by heart. As a result, he wasn’t surprised when he was escorted into the interrogation room by Bullock’s none too gentle hand and shoved into a flimsy, wooden chair.

He debated whether or not to protest his innocence -- indeed, he could claim that he and Gabriel had found the unfortunate Mr. Barker lying just so on the floor, and had attempted to render assistance, hampered only by the fact that neither he nor Mr. Massini had any practical medical knowledge. But the sour look on Bullock’s face told him it was better to save his breath. He was likely to be shouted at within five minutes, and it tended to be wearying.

The door opened, and the delightfully attractive officer who’d made the arrest entered, nodding once to Detective Bullock before taking the seat across from Oswald. Bullock, looking completely disgusted with the whole affair, stood and stormed out.

Oswald blinked. “I’m not one to typically complain about deviations in procedure, but is Detective Bullock well?”

The officer smirked without humor. “About as can be expected, Mister Cobblepot. While you _are_ being held for the assault of…” He opened a file in front of him and scanned it quickly. “Mister Barker, someone wished to speak with you first concerning a matter unrelated to police business.”

Oswald’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Am I to assume this is a person of means who wishes to speak with me?” When the officer’s eyes, like deep, royal blue sapphires, flicked up to meet his gaze, he added quickly, “I ask only because I know the dedication that the Gotham police force--”

The door opened then, and a slightly older gentleman in a dark, well-appointed suit entered. He nodded once to the officer, who rose from his chair and offered it. The man nodded again, taking the seat, and looked at Oswald.

He had brown eyes, Oswald noticed. Warm and deep, as though he had seen darkness but had not touched it. His hair in the dim light was brown, dusted with grey, and his lined face showed that he hadn’t laughed very often in his life. His skin was pale, the sort that suggested he didn’t spend much time out of doors, but he seemed hale enough to sit in a mildly drafty interrogation room without visible complaint.

“Forgive me for not standing, sir,” Oswald said haltingly. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have felt the need to stand for another person unless forced, but there was something about this man that made him want to explain himself.

The man shook his head, raising a hand to stop him from speaking. “It’s nothing. I am Elijah Van Dahl. From what Sir Gordon tells me, you submitted a death notice in the Gotham Gazette four days ago. Is that correct?”

“It is,” Oswald replied slowly, glancing quickly at the somber Sir Gordon before returning his attention to the gentleman. “But the only crime committed was how much they charged me for it.”

Van Dahl nodded. “Gertrud deserved a full obituary. I’m only ashamed that I couldn’t have submitted one for her.”

Oswald’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, Mister Van Dahl, but why should such a thing matter to you?”

Van Dahl stared into his eyes for a long moment instead of answering. “How old are you?”

“Excuse me?” Oswald frowned, not sure he liked this line of questioning. It would almost be a relief to have Detective Bullock in the room, if only for the comfort of familiarity.

Van Dahl’s eyes flashed with impatience before he visibly calmed himself. “Are you thirty years of age?”

“One-and-thirty,” Oswald admitted reluctantly. Most associates he came into contact with tended to _underestimate_ his age, much to his annoyance. For this man to be so near the mark was quickly becoming unsettling.

Van Dahl frowned, his thoughts far away for a moment before he nodded. “Yes… and then nine months before…”

“Mister Van Dahl?” Sir Gordon said carefully.

Van Dahl turned to look at him. “I’m beginning to think your initial theory was correct, Sir Gordon.”

Oswald watched the two of them warily, but said nothing. Sooner or later, they would explain themselves.

Van Dahl, however, turned back to Oswald, and removed something from the pocket of his waistcoat. It twinkled for a moment before he set it down on the table between them.

Oswald glanced at it, unsure why a gentleman’s pocket watch would be pertinent to their conversation, but froze in shock. On the table lay his mother’s heart-shaped locket of beaten copper, the strange design on the cover so familiar to him that his heart seized upon seeing it.

He stopped himself from snatching it up immediately.

When his mother’s body had been discovered by the police, the chain of her locket had been broken, and the locket itself hadn’t been discovered anywhere in the vicinity. She had never once in her life removed the locket from around her neck. “Always to keep my loves close to my heart, my Oswald,” she would say when Oswald asked her why.

He tore his gaze away from the locket to face the man who’d had it in his possession, watching him carefully. It had to be some kind of trick. Some trap to lure him into confessing some crime that he hadn’t been a part of. Even the matter of Mr. Barker could not be proved beyond a reasonable doubt, and he wasn’t about to give Sir Gordon or this gentleman any rope that they might hang him with.

“You recognize it, don’t you?” Van Dahl said, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

Oswald shrugged with a practiced air of casualness, fighting down his pain. “I’ve seen any number of lockets in the street markets, sir. One looks much like the rest.” He found his gaze sliding to the table, but he resolved not to stare at the locket any further.

“What if I were to tell you that I had a pair of these made when I was but twenty?” Van Dahl asked, his tone gentle and soothing. “And that my love swore she would never take hers off, so as to keep me close to her heart, always.”

Oswald gritted his teeth, staring openly at the locket now. 

His mother… she had loved but once in her whole life. Whenever Oswald asked her about it, she would be positively transformed as she remembered her lover, dancing to a song only she could hear as she made goulash and told Oswald of how charming and gentle his father had been to her, what promises he’d whispered to her.

How, the day he died, she had never stopped weeping.

If what this man said was true, his father wasn’t a romantic shadow anymore, with features that his mother adored seeing reflected in Oswald. His father was no longer a tall, faintly forbidding figure with a warm voice who would have held him close and showed him how to be a man, how to hold his head high when the world beat him into the dirt. His father had been an impossible ideal to strive for, leaving Oswald to quietly wonder for years if he had failed from the first moment he’d tried.

Now, if this man was to be believed, his mother had been tricked, cruelly used, and then set aside.

Perhaps this man, this Elijah Van Dahl, had meant it once upon a time, only to be reminded of his duty to marry some woman whose only advantage had been to be born into a wealthy family or a family with a title.

Then again, it wasn’t unheard of for men to dally with women of lower status, to play at being in love. A man of his means could find whatever lady he liked, take her into his arms and make love to her, and then change his mind when the next pair of fine eyes caught his attention.

It would be just like his mother to fall into an insidious trap because she had wanted to be believe it was real. After all, she had believed _him_ all those years when he said he worked in a tavern when all the evidence was set before her.

Van Dahl reached across the table and nudged the locket closer to Oswald. “Open it, if you don’t believe me. I’ve never removed her portrait.”

Unable to help himself, wanting one last glimpse of her that wasn’t of her dying in his arms, the blood pouring from her back where the murderer's knife had lodged, Oswald took up the locket. His broken fingernails slipped on the fine metal, hooking on the catch painfully before he managed to pry it open, and just as suddenly, Oswald was struck by how his mother’s locket had been similarly difficult to open.

After a moment, the catch popped, separating the two halves. The portrait of his mother, impossibly young and very beautiful, beamed up at him with almost luminous joy.

Oswald let out a choked sob before scrubbing furiously at his eyes with the dirty cuff of his sleeve.

“She was very beautiful, my Gertrud,” Van Dahl murmured gently.

Biting his lips, Oswald nodded quickly in agreement. “She was,” he whispered.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his instinct for survival kept telling Oswald to be cautious, to not take it as face value, but every day since his mother’s murder, the loneliness had gripped him like a concrete weight, dragging him deeper and deeper into a darkness that seemed unending.

This man, this stranger, looked at him with pity that he would ordinarily despise, but felt like a balm to his heart.

Van Dahl and Sir Gordon traded a look.

“Mister Van Dahl…” Sir Gordon began, but Van Dahl shook his head.

“You’ve made your concerns quite clear, Sir Gordon, but I believe I’ve heard enough. Who do I speak with about posting bond?”

Sir Gordon stared at him for a long moment before sighing heavily. “I’ll show you after we return Mister Cobblepot to the holding cell.”

“What do you mean?” Oswald asked, his voice still drenched in tears that he’d been trying to choke back. He looked between Sir Gordon and Van Dahl. “What’s going on?”

“You are my son, and I’m taking you home,” Van Dahl told him simply. “Do you have any further questions?”

Oswald wiped his nose with the cuff of his sleeve. “Can we bring Gabe with us?”


	3. Returning to a Place That Was Never Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald spends more time with Elijah Van Dahl and sees what the manor looks like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, so many thanks go out to [Daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doyle/pseuds/Daisiestdaisy) and [Legs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs) for their patience with me while I flail and pretend I know what I'm doing.
> 
> Also, a big thank-you to [Quill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/constructedmadness/pseuds/Dragonsquill) for kicking me in the butt to keep going, and for her beta-work and support. *warm fuzzies*
> 
>  **ETA:** There are chunks of Elijah's conversation in the last segment that are lifted straight from their conversation in "Mad Grey Dawn" (2x15). There are some slight variations in a few lines, but the conversation is left mostly intact. It's hard to compete with canon for a heart-wrenching explanation as to why Oswald's father was never in the picture in _Gotham_.

Oswald wondered if this is what it felt like to have a true, out-of-body experience. He watched as Mr. Van Dahl, a man who had never met him before in his life, paid for the bond for both himself and Gabriel, and led them to a carriage -- a full _carriage_ \-- that was waiting for them. Gabriel looked as stunned as Oswald felt, staring at the vehicle as though it was a contraption he had never seen before nor had the sense to understand its purpose, before turning to Oswald and bowing awkwardly.

Neither of them had ever bowed to each other.

"I'll go get your things from your place," Gabriel muttered quickly.

"An excellent idea, Mister Massini," Van Dahl told him. "Have them sent to the Van Dahl manor."

Gabriel stared at the gentleman, still with that dazed look in his eye, before remembering himself. "Oh. Right, Mister Van Dahl."

Oswald nodded, in a daze himself. "Thank you, Gabe."

As startled as Van Dahl looked, Gabriel looked more than a little relieved.

As Gabriel flagged down a hackney coach, and the two climbed into the carriage, Van Dahl looked at Oswald curiously. "You address your help by their first names?"

Oswald blinked back, momentarily startled at the idea that a gentleman might _not._ "Gabe and I have... been through a lot."

An understatement, to be sure. He'd first encountered Gabriel during his infiltration of the Maroni crime family. When he'd murdered Maroni's lieutenant while conducting a strike on one of Falcone's warehouses, Gabriel had turned on his former boss and was more than happy to sign on with him. After his mother’s murder, he had even offered to kill the man responsible personally so that Oswald wouldn’t face any danger in doing the deed himself. His stoic loyalty had shown itself in action time and again, and Oswald couldn’t help feeling a slight kinship to the man.

Now that Oswald was suddenly a man of means, it was likely that Gabe would continue his service, especially now that Oswald's income was going to be _much_ more stable.

Van Dahl nodded, his expression somber. "Do you have any other servants?"

"Servants?" Oswald asked blankly, the word not making any sense whatsoever. He was so dumbstruck at the notion, he stupidly added, "I don’t have that kind of money."

Van Dahl's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Then Mister Massini is not...?" His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Oswald barked out a spasm of laughter. "Gabe? Oh, no, he's not a servant. He's a--" He suddenly realized that he was about to tell Van Dahl more than he was comfortable with. He tried to think quickly, even as he tried not to notice the quality of the carriage he was sitting in. "Free agent?"

It sounded as polite as a term for anyone with loyalties as flexible as Gabe's, Oswald figured.

Van Dahl looked fascinated. "A free agent? I hadn't been aware there were such men in town. What does he do for you?"

Oswald, whose hand was unconsciously stroking the fine fabric of his seat cushion, reminded himself that he needed to keep on his toes. _This man could well be another Fish,_ he reminded himself. "Oh... whatever the situation demands," he managed with a sharp smile, congratulating himself on the quick save. Then he noticed that the carriage was traveling further into the downtown area. "Where are we going?"

"I have business with my lawyer, as well as a few other places," Van Dahl said easily, peeking out of the window briefly before settling back and eying Oswald with interest. "Unless you have a solicitor of your own you prefer to use?"

“A solicitor of my own…?” Oswald echoed in confusion before he understood what he had just said. The absurdity of the thought alone was enough to laugh in Van Dahl’s face.

Van Dahl looked taken aback at first, but then waited for Oswald to catch his breath. “I imagine I said something amusing?”

Oswald fought down another bout of laughter, his lips quirking as he shook his head. “What use would _I_ have for a solicitor?”

“I’ve found that they’re useful for a great many things,” Van Dahl said mildly, his lips quirking into a hint of a smile. “Perhaps Gertrud had one she trusted?”

The sound of his mother’s name, spoken so lightly, killed the laughter in his throat faster than a well-placed knife. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, sir.” Unsure what else to do, he set his jaw firmly and looked out the window, seeing the buildings and people passing by, but not noticing them.

After a long pause, Van Dahl murmured, "I'm sorry..." His words fell off and he cleared his throat uncertainly. "I'm afraid I am uncertain how we should address each other."

Oswald was startled out of his melancholy by such an absurd question. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t help thinking that it was not the question of a man who kept a scheme in his back pocket to better his own fortunes when an opportunity arose. “We’re father and son, are we not? Isn’t that how we’re supposed to address each other?”

Van Dahl nodded. “True, though you must admit, we _are_ strangers to each other. Would _you_ feel comfortable addressing a near-perfect stranger as ‘Father’?”

Oswald opened his mouth, some part of him wanting to reassure this man, this admitted near-perfect stranger, that of course that was how he wished to address his father, but a half-bitter laugh spilled out of him. “I must admit, you make a very good point, sir.”

Van Dahl smiled back, looking pleased. “Very well, then. Shall I address you as ‘Oswald’?”

Oswald stared in astonishment. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Van Dahl frowned. “To address such a new acquaintance by their first name would be the height of impertinence. Among our set, it shows a great deal of intimacy between the speaker and the addressed.”

Oswald snorted before he could contain it. “And among _my_ set, referring to someone by their surname means you’re too full of yourself because you can’t be bothered to learn their first name.”

Van Dahl looked absolutely fascinated. “What other rules did you follow?”

For just a moment, Oswald wasn’t one-and-thirty and sitting across from the man who had fathered him. Instead, he was but fourteen, and sitting across from Fish Mooney in her tavern, shivering with fright and praying he wouldn’t be murdered for his impertinence for requesting work from her.

 _“You will do **as** I say, **when** I say,”_ she had said to him. _“You will tell me all the secrets you learn, and you will have my protection. Be loyal to me, be **faithful** to me, and Mama Fish will provide.”_

A hand touching his startled Oswald out of the memory with a gasp.

“Oswald?” Van Dahl said firmly, a worried frown turning his features severe. “Are you all right?”

Oswald nodded quickly, holding up his free hand. “I’m fine, sir. I’m fine.”

“I didn’t mean to cause any unpleasantness with my question--”

Oswald shook his head. “No, no, really. I’m fine.” He licked his lips before glancing out the window. “Are we almost to your lawyer’s office?”

Van Dahl accepted the change of topic without comment, though he still looked at Oswald with noticeable worry.

Whatever business had taken Van Dahl to his lawyer, it was concluded quickly enough. The other stops along the way that Van Dahl had mentioned were quickly dispensed with too, but Oswald was too absorbed by the interior of the carriage, and the change in his circumstances, to take note of them. Van Dahl seemed pleased by the end of his errands, at least, so Oswald felt no obligation to ask after his father’s business.

Soon, however, the carriage was making its way out of downtown Gotham and away, into the countryside. Oswald had never had occasion to leave the city, so seeing the wild, open spaces was novel. The air seemed crisp and clean, a stark contrast to the city, and there was so much greenery that it felt almost dreamlike in its scale.

The ride had lasted for most of an hour without much conversation, but the silence felt easier between them than it had between Oswald and some of his more easy-going associates. (It was likely that the possibility of violence breaking out between the rougher set might’ve had something to do with it.) But from Van Dahl, the air was contemplative and curious, but not so much so that they felt the need to speak.

It was when they were still on the paved road for another half-an-hour that Oswald’s curiosity got the better of him. “I realize that you live outside of town, but just how _far_ is it to your estate?”

“Hmm?” Van Dahl looked at him curiously. “The estate? We’re already on it.”

Oswald blinked at him, unable to make the words make sense. “We are?”

Van Dahl nodded, sparing a glance outside. “We’ve been on it for the past ten minutes or so.” He couldn’t help a small chuckle when Oswald continued to stare at him in shock. “The family holdings are quite large. I believe it was my great-grand-uncle who purchased the properties of the families adjacent some eighty years ago, though I could be incorrect about the timing.”

Oswald looked outside the carriage again, taking in the wilderness and feeling more than a little overwhelmed. Van Dahl’s estate didn’t need to be measured in miles, but in how long it took to travel the distance from the man’s home into town. He turned back to Van Dahl, still feeling as though he’d been hit in the head with a blunt object. “And how much farther is it to the house?”

“Oh, we’re quite close to it now,” Van Dahl said. “See for yourself.”

Oswald’s eyes widened when the carriage followed a bend in the road, passing a copse of trees and revealing the mansion itself. Ivy clung to a section of wall that jutted up past the roof on one side, spreading over onto something that resembled a tower. The rest of the house, festooned with windows, had to be at least two or three stories high. Against the backdrop of the stormy sky, it had a dark, forbidding air to it.

“How many people live here?” Oswald whispered, remembering all of the tenement houses in Gotham where he and his mother had managed to find room for themselves, jammed in with all the other tenants who were barely surviving, let alone existing.

“Well, there’s myself and the staff both upstairs and below stairs at present, though as soon as your things are brought and situated, you’ll be another occupant,” Van Dahl said. He hesitated for a moment, and then added apologetically, “I should have asked if you wished to stay with me instead of presuming. As you can see, there’s more than enough room for you.”

Oswald hesitated to turn away from the mansion, as though it would disappear if he didn’t keep it in view. “What about the servants? Wouldn’t one of them have to leave to make way for me?”

Van Dahl looked quite baffled. “Of course not. You’ll have your choice of rooms, of course, but you won’t be putting anyone out.”

Oswald frowned at the mansion, but it didn’t grow any smaller the closer the carriage got. Even as the carriage turned into a circular drive in front of the entrance, the mansion seemed monstrous compared to some of the buildings in town.

The driver hopped down and opened the door for them, backing away to allow Van Dahl to step down before moving forward to assist Oswald. Oswald stared at him incredulously before shaking his head and managing to get down. He felt a brief flare-up of pain as his knee twisted and bent, but it was no better or worse than when he had to navigate stairs anywhere else.

Looking up at the mansion and still feeling dwarfed by it, Oswald asked, “Which rooms belong to the servants?”

Van Dahl smiled. “You can’t see them from any of the sides of the mansion, Oswald.”

Oswald glanced at him, momentarily taken aback to hear himself addressed thus.

Van Dahl raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I was given to understand you wouldn’t be offended…?”

Oswald shook his head quickly. “No, no. I’m just surprised that you said my name so soon.” He couldn’t help a nervous twitch of a smile. “I’m still trying not to think of you as ‘Mister Van Dahl’.”

Van Dahl shook his head. “As I said before, we are still near-perfect strangers to each other. My hope is that, with time, we’ll feel more easy around each other.” He turned to the driver. “Thank you, Jenkins, that will be all.”

Jenkins bowed first to Van Dahl, and then to Oswald, who returned the bow instinctively. And then, without another word, he drove the carriage out of the circular drive and out of sight.

“Come inside,” Van Dahl said, leading the way.

The ornately-carved, heavy wooden doors opened, revealing a foyer with black and white tiles. Candles were lit on a chandelier just above them as well as gas lamps that flanked doorways, illuminating more ornately-carved, dark brown wood. A staircase led up to the second story, and corridors branched off, promising to lose the unwary.

It felt like stepping inside a very ominous cave.

“I’d like to show you around,” Van Dahl began, unintentionally startling Oswald from his survey of the foyer. He didn’t seem to notice Oswald’s inattention, though. “But before I do, are you hungry? I can have Olga make something for you.”

“Olga?” Oswald frowned.

“My cook,” Van Dahl explained. “Her surname has always been difficult to pronounce, so when she was first hired on, I asked permission to refer to her by her first name. I must warn you -- unless you speak Russian, you won’t understand her, though she understands English quite well.”

“Why would you hire her if you can’t understand her?” Oswald asked peevishly. He’d never had a knack for languages, though his mother had taught him a few words in German when he’d been younger. It had made dealing with certain parts of town more difficult over the years, and he could never tell if he or his boss was getting cheated in business deals.

Van Dahl gave him a steady look. “Perhaps I missed the dishes your mother made so well.”

Oswald colored at the mild rebuke. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, turning his attention to the corridors and wondering which way the bedrooms were. “Which rooms should I choose from?”

Van Dahl touched his arm lightly and pointed at the staircase. “The bedrooms are up there. Again, you may have whichever you’d like, though the master bedroom is mine. I can show you to them, if you’d like?”

Oswald shook his head, remembering the attention his father had given to his bad leg when he’d walked out of the police station earlier, and not wanting to repeat the experience. “No, I’ll be fine by myself. I’d like to take my time looking at them, if I may.” He gave Van Dahl an artfully apologetic smile as he motioned to his bad leg. Even as he had detested the pity he received whenever strangers saw his limp, even Oswald had to admit there were advantages to it, especially from well-meaning people like Van Dahl.

“But of course,” Van Dahl said quickly. “I’ll speak with Olga about something to eat.” He eyed the staircase. “Should I have it sent up to you?”

Oswald almost started laughing at the ludicrous idea -- no one in their right mind would mistake _him_ for a baron to be waited on hand and foot. But then he realized that his father was perfectly serious. “Ah, no.” He cleared his throat, fighting down the laughter. “I can come down.”

“But the stairs--”

“It’s no trouble,” Oswald said firmly. “I don’t like speaking of it, but I’ve had this--” He motioned to his turned leg, “--for the better part of a year. If I start bowing to its wishes now, I’ll never get anything done.”

Van Dahl gazed at him with a surprising amount of respect, though tinged with something softer. “Oswald, I realize we’ve only been acquainted a short while, but I think you are allowed some gentleness now.”

A smirk stretched across Oswald’s face, sharp and self-directed. If ever he had wondered at just how disparate he and his father were at their core, he wondered no longer. “Gentleness is not for men like me.”

Van Dahl considered him for another long moment, and then nodded once. “Forgive my interference, Oswald. It was kindly meant.” He looked up at the grand staircase, and no doubt, Oswald could see his father mentally counting each step. “When you’ve made a selection, ring the bell. One of the servants will show you to the dining room.”

Oswald nodded, and ascended the stairs, leaning heavily on the curved bannister and wondering if he could have a room with a fair prospect.

***

The room was well-appointed, with furniture made of a dark wood that contrasted pleasantly with the bright bedsheets. The curtains adorning the windows were made of a heavy brocade that seemed almost too heavy to shift, but added a pleasingly bold note of color. The bed had a deceptively sturdy headboard with fanciful scrollwork, and was quite comfortable when Oswald sat upon it. An armoire stood against one wall, decorated with similar scrollwork and adorned with brass knobs on the drawers that felt smooth to the touch.

Oswald stared at it and wondered if he had fallen asleep on the floor of the holding cell for the fifth time that day. It felt like he had fallen ass over teakettle into a fairy tale. The fact that he still hadn’t hit bottom yet was the only thing keeping him from getting swept up in all of it.

His time as Fish’s man had taught him that there was always a trick, always a scheme in motion, ready to take the unsuspecting -- the _trusting_ \-- by surprise. If he couldn’t see it immediately, it was because he wasn’t looking hard enough.

But whenever he thought about Elijah… it almost felt like he was looking at his mother. The same open face, the same warmth whenever the man looked at him. As if he were someone who Elijah was glad to see, which was preposterous. The man likely needed an heir for when he dropped dead of some disease rich people succumbed to because they were too good to breathe the sooty reek of Gotham like the rest of them.

Elijah was like this room, which was a strange thought. It was like a comfortable den, with a nest of blankets and pillows just waiting for Oswald to crawl inside and stay there. But the softness of the sheets felt too fine against his fingers, the ornate carving of the headboard too strange. Oswald had never conceived of owning something so grand, though he had occasionally daydreamed of a time when he would have all the money in the world and not a single care to go with it.

The whole bedroom, like all the bedrooms of rich lords and ladies he’d snuck through before to rob them blind, to attack them, to relay a message… it was just laid out before him, ripe for the picking. All he had to do was turn to Elijah and say, “I’ve made a decision,” and it would be his domain entirely. But he couldn’t help hesitating. There had to be a catch he wasn’t seeing, someone waiting in the wings to take it all away from him. Nothing had ever been this easy.

Moving aside the heavy curtains, he found a fair prospect that gave him a nice view of the grounds, the road leading into town almost like something out of a painting.

The room, Oswald figured, was as good as any for a bedroom.

He glanced around before finding a weighty-looking handbell on the table next to the bed. Hefting it in his hand, he grinned a little at the thought that, if he were attacked in here, he would still have some means of defending himself. With that thought, he gave it a solid shake, wincing at the volume so close to his ears.

A nervous slip of a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen entered quickly enough that Oswald had wondered if she had been waiting in the hallway the whole time. She was fairly unremarkable, her clothes plain, her apron pristine, and her hair making a valiant escape from under her cap in frazzled brown ringlets.

Her brown eyes took him in, and then widened. To her credit, she didn’t run.

Oswald narrowed his eyes at her. “You know who I am.”

She nodded quickly. “You’re the Penguin.”

“And you are…?” Oswald asked, keeping his tone sharp.

Her gaze found the floor. “Bridgit.”

Oswald’s eyebrows rose sharply. “If you know who I am, you also know that I treat anyone who works for me with respect, as long as they’ve earned it. Your surname?”

She flinched. “Pike.”

Oswald frowned. “Pike? I heard the Pike brothers were dead. How, pray tell, are you still alive?”

Bridgit’s gaze lifted. “I’m smarter than they were.”

Oswald snorted. “You are at that. What brought you here?”

Bridgit straightened up, looking him over. “What brought _you_?”

Oswald considered this for a moment, and then nodded. He didn’t usually deal with anyone younger than adults because teenagers were inconveniently impulsive at the best of times, but this, at least, was familiar -- nothing was free, especially information. “Fair enough. I put a notice in the paper that my mother was dead, and Elijah thinks that I’m his son.”

Bridgit’s eyes widened. “Is it true?”

Oswald couldn’t fault her for asking. He was still having trouble believing it himself. “There’re some details that add up, but...” He shrugged.

“It’s too good to be true,” she finished for him gently. “For what it’s worth, Mister Van Dahl, he’s been good to me since I came.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“After Evan got killed at the Merc, my brothers made me be the entryman for their jobs. Butch had a lot of jobs lined up for us -- it was good money. But then--” She took a breath, and continued. “I killed a cop. I didn’t mean to-- I was just trying to get away from him, scare him a little with the flamethrower so he’d let me go, but…” She shrugged, looking ill.

“How’d you get here, of all places?” Oswald asked. “Elijah’s a soft touch, but this is a little far from the Narrows.”

“There was an ad in the paper for a maid position. Nobody's looking for me out here.” Her eyes lifted to his, her lips in a flat, hopeless line. “Please, sir… It’s a new life for me. I’ve got a nice place to sleep now. Food I don’t have to steal. And I don’t have to burn down anymore buildings.”

Oswald stared at her, wondering if this was what he would’ve looked like if things had been different. If he hadn’t fallen in with Fish.

He wasn’t sure what composed the twist in his gut in its entirety, but revulsion at the idea of calling anyone ‘master’, let alone a rich man, was part of it.

“Do you like bowing and scraping and calling some rich man ‘master’?” Oswald couldn’t help a sneer.

Bridgit stared back at him with a startling lack of fear. “What about you? I heard from my brothers that you did your share of it.”

“I had a _plan_ ,” Oswald snapped.

“And what’s your plan now?” she asked.

That was the question Oswald had been dreading. On the one hand, it was so easy to turn his back on that life, walk away and enjoy the embarrassment of riches before him, eating fine food, wearing clothes that weren’t cast-offs two sizes too large.

On the other hand, he wasn’t sure if he knew what to do with himself if he weren’t trying to claw his way to the top, to become the most powerful mob boss in all of Gotham.

And then there were the lords and ladies who had both….

Bridgit was still staring at him when Oswald surfaced from his thoughts. “Well?”

“Don’t try to kill me or Elijah, and we’ll be fine,” Oswald said with an air of casualness while giving her a hard stare.

Bridgit bobbed a quick curtsey, but he could still see the light of relief in her eyes. When she straightened, she looked critically at his clothes. “I know that I was to bring you downstairs for luncheon after you selected your room, but did you want a bath first?”

Oswald arched an eyebrow at her, daring her to say something.

“The bathtub has hot and cold running water, sir,” she said as demurely as she could while fighting down a smile. It finally bloomed when she saw the look on his face. “I’ll draw you up a bath right away, sir.”

***

This, Oswald thought dreamily, he could get used to.

The water stung against the various cuts and bruises on his hands, the air was hot and moist in his lungs, but _oh_ , the hot water was almost magical to his crippled knee.

For the first time in nearly a year, his knee wasn’t paining him. The muscles in his thigh and calf were easing, relaxing in the nearly blistering water, and it was _heaven_.

Oswald shifted gingerly, trying to keep everything below his neck submerged, when realization dawned.

He was clean, he was healthy, and his leg wasn’t paining him, but how long would it last?

How long would he have until the pain rebounded, shooting daggers up his leg, stabbing into his brain? How long would he have until he had to walk on his bad leg, lock his knee and find the right combination of walking and falling that would pain him the least?

The heaven was wonderful, but thinking of the pain that was to come… it was almost torture.

***

Elijah couldn’t help feeling concerned.

It was nearly two hours later when Oswald made his labored way down to a late lunch, his hair damp as he sat at the table. As he began to eat, his stunned expression reminded Elijah vividly of an incident when he was fifteen concerning a man who was commissioning a suit from his father.

The chief of the trouble had been that the gentleman had been standing for too long on the fitting platform without bending his knees. One moment, he had been gaily talking about a new horse he’d purchased from a man in Pennsylvania. The next, his eyes had rolled back into his head, and he’d collapsed onto the floor in a heap. It had taken a quarter of an hour to rouse the man, and Elijah found himself wondering if it would take longer to rouse his prodigal son from his stupefaction. 

Occasionally, Oswald would notice his attention, and then shake himself as though a bird ruffling its feathers, his borrowed clothes settling themselves again on his shoulders. He ate distractedly when he glanced around the dining room, his gaze lingering on the chandelier and the portraits on the walls. When reminded of his food, however, Oswald returned to his repast in earnest, as though he expected the food to disappear from his plate if left unattended. His son was certainly thin enough for Elijah to readily believe that he and his mother had been through lean times, and his heart ached that he hadn’t been there for them as he should’ve been.

As each moment passed, it felt like a chasm was opening wider and wider between them, and Elijah was at a loss as to how to bridge it.

“Oswald? Are you all right?”

Green eyes jerked back to Elijah. “Ah, yes, I’m sorry.” He managed a half-smile. “I was distracted by all of the paintings.” He motioned to one just behind Elijah.

“My great-grandfather, Thomas,” Elijah said, not having to look behind him. “All of the paintings here are relations of ours, long passed.”

Oswald nodded, not looking surprised by the intelligence. “The Van Dahls have had a long history.” He shrugged at Elijah’s curious look. “You can feel it in the house, almost like another person lives here.”

Elijah nodded slowly in agreement. “I feel like there’s a greater truth in that than you might realize.”

Oswald’s eyes narrowed, a calculating look that made him seem more removed from the situation than his earlier awe suggested. He tore off a piece of a bread roll with his hands and dipped it into the drips of gravy that remained of his roast beef. “You loved my mother.”

And now they came to the heart of it. Elijah wasn’t sure if he was equal to the task of telling his son the history of his romance with Gertrud. But for her sake, and their son’s, he prepared himself as best he could. “I did. Very much.”

“Enough to have two lockets commissioned,” Oswald added, his tone one of reciting facts while his eyes glittered. Unlike Gertrud’s shining, happy blue, Oswald’s seemed closer to the brilliance of the ivy that clung to the mansion, grasping and jealous. “Why copper?”

His son, it appeared, let nothing escape his notice. “I wanted to have them made in gold, but Gertrud persuaded me. She said that all trinkets were made of gold and silver, but copper was the only thing that would satisfy her.” Elijah shook his head slowly. “She wanted something unusual, I think. I had asked her why would she want such a thing -- I thought that she doubted my love. But she told me only that she wanted me in her blood.”

Oswald sighed heavily, his shoulders wilting under some invisible weight. When his eyes opened, he looked like he had aged a decade. “You can lose all the gold and silver in the world, but as long as you still have your blood inside you, there is hope.”

Elijah’s breath caught. “Is that something your mother told you?”

Oswald nodded. “When I… first found work, I kept long hours.” His gaze returned to his plate, and he half-heartedly tore off another chunk of his roll and lazily sopped up gravy with it. “We were always careful, but then we were robbed. Neither of us were there, so we weren’t hurt. But I was furious. I wanted to find who did it, get our money back. Make the bastards _pay_ for what they did.” His fingers tightened around the crust of bread until his knuckles were white.

“But Mother--” Oswald closed his eyes quickly and breathed. When he spoke next, there were tears in his voice. “She said that to me. And she told me that we could make more, that we’d hide the money in a better place. As long as we were together, we would be all right.”

Elijah might have thought he had felt shame before at never having tried to find Gertrud in the past, but upon hearing about this incident in his son’s life, he felt like he was near to choking. “Oswald.”

Oswald looked up at him, his lips thin. “I don’t tell you this to lay blame at your feet, sir. I tell you this because blood was important to her, more than money.”

Elijah’s heart felt like a stone in his chest, aching and heavy. “Then it will make our sad history all the more painful, for which I am deeply sorry.”

Oswald looked around the dining room, at the painting of Elijah’s great-grandfather, at the candelabras throughout the room, the carvings on all of the wood furnishings. He carefully set down the misshapen lump of roll in his hand and picked up a salad fork, examining its tines and rubbing at them with the tip of his thumb.

“Mother was a cook once,” Oswald began. He didn’t look at Elijah, but Elijah felt the weight of his regard all the same. “She told me she worked in a beautiful mansion for a _very_ important family. The father was very stern and concerned about propriety. The mother always fashionable and attending parties. The son--” Green eyes flicked up to meet his. “Gentle, kind and _very_ handsome.”

“When my parents found out, they forbade us from being together,” Elijah said in as steady voice as he could muster. “I was the heir to a great fortune, they said. And she was just a cook. I threatened to run away with her, turn my back on the family name and my inheritance.”

Oswald watched him unblinking, but said nothing.

“It was the first and only time that I ever stood up to them,” Elijah admitted brokenly. “They must have known that my words were just that -- a spoiled child making idle threats. The next day, Gertrud was gone. My parents told me only that they had come to an arrangement: she would be taken care of, and I must never make an attempt to find her. And to my shame, I didn’t.”

That had surprised his son. Perhaps Oswald had been expecting for him to not have any proper feeling in his heart for a woman who was ‘just a cook’, but Gertrud had been the woman he _loved_. Sadly, Elijah hadn’t loved her enough to leave everything behind for her, as she had done when he hadn’t been brave enough to leave with her.

“I let them separate us,” Elijah whispered, wishing that he could take all of the pain and heartache in his chest and remove it so that his son could see the evidence for himself just how much he had loved Gertrud. There were tears in his eyes when he spoke again. “I had no _idea_ \-- She never told me she was with child. She didn’t _tell_ me about you. If she did--”

“She told me that my father had died when I was still a baby,” Oswald said.

Elijah’s bitter smile quivered as well. “A dead father is easier to bear than one to be ashamed of, I suppose. She must have figured that the two of you would be better off making your own way.”

“A dead father can’t tell me what my mother was like when she was young,” Oswald snapped, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “A dead father can’t look at me with pride and say that I’m allowed to have gentleness when I have done _nothing_ to deserve it.”

Unable to help himself, Elijah got up from his chair and walked around the table. He would’ve grabbed Oswald’s arm and brought him to his feet, but his son was already standing unsteadily. 

“You have a home now,” Elijah’s throat ached. “A father, if you can bear him.”

Oswald jerked his head in a nod, his eyes squeezed tight, his yellowed teeth bared in a rictus of pain.

“And if you wish it, we can be a family.”

Oswald moved forward in his painful step-drag gait, and fell into his arms. Wrapping his arms tightly around his son, Elijah closed his eyes and cried.


End file.
